


breathing heavy when it's just a kiss

by labeledbones



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-17 01:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13648632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labeledbones/pseuds/labeledbones
Summary: When you kiss him at these things, he always tastes like tobacco and bourbon and expensive fish with traces of Elizabeth’s lipstick.Some second person POV nonsense about Armie and Timmy making out at that L'Officiel launch party the other night.





	breathing heavy when it's just a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [elliebird](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elliebird/works) for writing the best kissing and making me want to write about these two kissing too. (If you haven't read her fics _Time Out_ and _What a Kiss Can Be_ , stop and go read those and then come back.) Of course I wound up spiraling into second person feelings because I can't help myself. :) :)

When you kiss him at these things, he always tastes like tobacco and bourbon and expensive fish with traces of Elizabeth’s lipstick. It frustrates you. You like when he tastes like nothing, just himself, when the taste of his tongue doesn’t remind you of all the people in the other room, on the other side of the wall, the strangers who claim to know you. But you have to kiss him right now, immediately. You are bone tired, permanently jet lagged, still reeking of airplane. And you are standing there watching him hold court, people coming up to praise him while he sits back in his chair, dragging on his cigarette, and you have to kiss him or else you might actually start to cry in the middle of this party, all these people. 

So you say to him, “I need some air, if you’d rather smoke outside,” slapping his knee and rolling your eyes at him, because it’s 2018 and he’s smoking inside a public space. And even though no one really seems to care or mind, you catch Elizabeth’s eye and she mouths ‘thank you’ and shakes her head.

He offers you a cigarette when you’re out on the street, but you tell him you’re trying to stop that now, sticking to just weed, and even that only once in a while. “Bad habit,” you say.

He laughs, “So virtuous,” and drops his own cigarette onto the ground. “Okay, I’ll stop too,” he says and you both know he doesn’t mean it. He’s a slave to his vices. 

You used to wonder if that included you, if you were just a habit he couldn’t break, a guilty pleasure. Took you a while to believe you were more than that. “I don’t ever feel guilty when I’m with you,” he said when you voiced this fear. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hooked on you though.” 

You reach out with your own boot and stub out the still burning cigarette. And then you glance up and down the sidewalk and pull him into a small alleyway between buildings. You put your hands on his hips, lean back against the wall, and he kisses you without saying anything. 

You are starving for him and you show it, eager hands, eager tongue, eager body arching into his. Your head knocks back against the wall and you feel your hat slip off, hit the ground somewhere, you don’t care. His hands are immediately pulling at your hair, which you haven’t washed in days, but he buries his hands in there like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. And you can’t deny your body’s reaction to the pull, that slight pain, the way it forces your mouth to open wider against his mouth. 

You feel yourself coming back to life each time he catches your bottom lip between his own lips, between his teeth. You die and come back again and die and come back again. 

You didn’t understand what it meant to want someone, not really, not until that summer when you saw how the Italian moonlight spilled across the stretch of his shoulders. And suddenly you’d wanted to consume that expanse of skin, wanted to swallow it down. You had never so badly wanted a part of someone to be a part of you. 

The first thing you’d done, when you knew he would let you, was taste the skin between his shoulder blades, let your mouth travel from one shoulder, across the back of his neck, to the other shoulder. He’d laughed at you, fondly, said, “Okay okay,” and pulled you back around so he could kiss you properly on the mouth for the first time. 

You haven’t stopped kissing him since, at least not by choice. Even when you aren’t kissing him, you are still kissing him. 

You’d said this to him once. You were in the middle of a press day, and you’d been looking at his mouth for hours, watching him answer the same questions over and over. When you had a break between interviews, you’d come up behind him as he was ending a phone call. You said, “Sometimes I just watch your mouth and I can feel you kissing me.” He looked at you, bemused, and you stepped a little closer and you said, “I didn’t know kissing someone could be - ” and he looked around quickly, to see who was in that particular hotel hallway just then, and there wasn’t anyone, and so he kissed you and you said, “ - all consuming,” and you kissed him again, standing up on your toes to reach him. He wouldn’t open his mouth to you, because he always has more restraint, so you stopped, dropped back on your heels, and went back to work. 

Now, he has his hands under your shirt or he’s trying to - “Jesus, how many layers you got here, Timo?” but then his hands are on the bare skin of your back, his fingertips lining up along your spine, and the whine that comes out of your mouth is embarrassing, too much for so small a touch, but the air is cold and his hands are warm, and it’s him, and it’s you. 

You know what this would look like to someone just stumbling on the two of you. You know you are disheveled and panting, this scrawny kid with his body curving desperately into an older, bigger, better looking, married man who is still composed, taking you apart slowly, in total control. You know your cheeks are flushed, your lips are swollen, you’re half hard and on the verge of crying from how much more you want, how it seems impossible that you could ever get enough. 

You know they would see something debauched and cheap, a quick thrill in an alley. You know they would be wrong. You know that right now, when his mouth moves from your jaw and finds your lips again, that he is putting you back together, restoring you. And you know when he hums into your mouth, swipes his tongue across your top lip, that he is giving his control over to you, giving himself to you. 

Your hands reach up to grip the collar of his jacket, which you know is expensive as hell, tailored to his body, and you pull hard, listening for that familiar shake in his breath which means he’s gone, lost, yours. 

You say, “We should go back,” not because you mean it, or particularly want to go back, but because you want to watch him break, just a little. And he does. His knees give out slightly and he drops his forehead against yours, his breath coming out heavy and warm against your cheek. “No,” he says and he kisses you so forcefully that you feel the sharp pain of your skull making contact with brick. But he’s surrendered to you already so you push him back, hands firm on his shoulders. “Yes,” you say and kiss him gently, a ghost of a kiss that he tries to follow, but you move your head just out of reach. 

And then his body goes slack, and he takes a few steps back from you with his eyes still closed and his mouth still pink and wet from your mouth. He takes in a long breath before he opens his eyes again. He silently reaches down, picks up your hat and puts it back on your head, fingers pulling at the curls that stick out from beneath it, tucking them back behind your ears, his hands coming to rest on either side of your face. 

“If you start again, we won’t stop,” you say warningly, your mouth already reaching for his. 

But he doesn’t kiss you, he just looks at you, he just presses his thumbs against your cheekbones and says, “I love you.” 

You reach up and adjust the crooked collar on his jacket. You let your fingers slip under just for a second to feel his warm skin. You want to say the words back, but they don’t feel like enough, they never feel like enough. 

You told him once that he’d righted the universe for you, that the earth’s orbit must have been off kilter before you met him, and if you hadn’t met him the planet surely would’ve just spun out into space. You said there was no livable universe where you didn’t meet him, know him, love him. You’d expected him to laugh at that, but he didn’t. He’d touched your hair, your bare shoulder, the inside of your thigh, like you were something priceless and fragile. And then he’d said, “Well thank fuck for fate,” and pressed his hungry mouth to your throat, and you were both laughing. 

He knows you love him, and he knows you don’t always know how to say it.

So now you fix his jacket, you comb his hair back into place with your fingers, you smile at him, you kiss the corner of his mouth. You say, “Dance with me when we go back inside?” and hold out your hand. 

“Only if that DJ will take requests,” he smiles and twists his fingers with yours.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Favourite Colour" by Carly Rae Jepsen. 
> 
> Armie smoking inside (i felt the need to shame him for it just a little smh) comes from [this video from the party](http://bowie28.tumblr.com/post/170672706280).


End file.
